Yet should rising whirlwinds tear Should the vine put forth no more, And the herds desert the stall; Should thine altered hand restrain Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee-for thyself alone. BARBAULD. AFFLICTION. WHEN first Thou didst entice to Thee my heart, I thought the service brave; So many joys I writ down for my part! Besides what I might have Out of my stock of natural delights, Augmented with Thy gracious benefits. I looked on Thy furniture so fine, Thy glorious household stuff did me intwine, And 'tice me unto Thee. Such stars I counted mine: both heaven and earth Paid me my wages in a world of mirth. What pleasure could I want, whose King I served? Where joys my fellows were? Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts reserved No place for grief or fear: Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fierceness seek Thy face. At first Thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way: My days were strewed with flowers and happiness: There was no month but May: But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, And made a party unawares for woe. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingering book, And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in a world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life. Yet lest perchance I should too happy be In my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, Thou throwest me Into more sicknesses. Thus does Thy power cross-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking. Now I am here; what Thou wilt do with me, None of my books will show: I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure then I should grow To fruit, or shade; at least some bird would trust Her household to me, and I should be just. Yet though Thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weakness must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek Some other master out. Ah, my dear God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not. Thy golden censers filled with odors sweet Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet. HERRICK. BEFORE SLEEP. THE night is come like to the Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, foes Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest SIR THOMAS BROWNE. HYMN. LORD, when I quit this earthly stage, Where shall I fly but to thy breast? For I have sought no other home, For I have learned no other rest. I cannot live contented here, Without some glimpses of thy face; And heaven without thy presence there Would be a dark and tiresome place. |